Poems (Cromwell)/Biographical Note
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
Gladys and Dorothea Cromwell were so essentially one that any account of either must include the other. Neither ever used the singular pronoun, and those who knew them fairly well often doubted to which sister they were speaking. Indeed when it was suggested to Gladys that "Gates of Utterance" should be dedicated to Dorothea, she answered that poets were not in the habit of dedicating their verse to themselves. So in writing even a brief sketch it is necessary to think of them as they were, an identity expressed in two terms. They were born in November, 1885, and inherited possessions, talents, and an exquisite beauty strangely poignant because in the twin sisters the charm seemed more than doubled. There are a few men and women with whom one feels a sense of spiritual mystery: one walks with them always on the road to Emmaus. It was true of these two They found their home in the unseen. In the outer, material world they existed only by an effort that cost them much, for they moved as spirits, untouched by crude desires; bending with a shy longing to meet human needs; searching for some solution that should justify their personal immunities, their money, and the grace and luxury to which they had been born. A delicate humility made them feel debtors to life. In their eyes existence was a bond given by the soul, to be redeemed at any cost. Both had written from childhood, and in 1915 Gladys published a volume of poems that promised no uncertain music. Slight as it was, endless toil lay back of it: she had the master's sense of workmanship, and every verse and stanza was the outcome of labor that had often covered years. "Gates of Utterance" was obviously a first book: but it was the first book of a poet. Dorothea was developing more slowly, experimenting more cautiously. The short stories she left show at once more cleverness, a keener sense of epigram, of earth's hidden laughter, than any one could have guessed who saw only a graceful, fuchsia-like creature, eager to give her time and income to social experiment and investigation. But of them more was asked than selfless generosity, or will to serve. In a picture taken at the Chalons Canteen, the two girls, veiled and habited in white working uniform, stand like conventual sisters serving a group of poilus; Dorothea holds a slender pitcher from which she pours into the soldier's cup, while Gladys offers bread in a shallow basket. Clear of line like a classic bas-relief, the so fortunate and so casual photograph is strangely symbolic and recalls One who said, "Take, eat; this is my body broken for you." Gladys and Dorothea Cromwell broke the bread of their bodies and poured out the wine of their spirits that others might live.
When the war drew an inerasable line across all lives, the two girls began to prepare themselves. They spent their summer months in a hospital: they learned to run a motor; they took canteen-efficiency lessons; they held themselves aloof from the over-heated speech of excitement, but their hearts burned within them. The world as they saw it demanded of them an heroic resolve.
In January, 1918, the two sisters, having rolled in the Canteen Service of the Bed Cross, sailed for France and were stationed at Chalons. For eight months they worked under fire on long day or night shifts; their free time was filled with volunteer outside service; they slept in "caves" or under trees in a field; they suffered from the exhaustion that is so acute to those who have never known physical labor; yet no one suspected until the end came that for many months they had believed their work a failure, and their efforts futile. The Chalonais called them "The Saints"; during dull evenings, the poilus, who adored the "Twin Angels," found amusement in effort, always unsuccepsful, to distinguish them apart. The workers in the Canteen loved and admired them for their courage—that finest bravery which leads fear to intrepid action; they loved them for their rare charm, but they gave them whole-souled appreciation for the tireless, efficient labor which made them invaluable as practical canteeners. In September, at their own request, they were transferred to an Evacuation Hospital, for after the rest of a "permission" they longed to work with "our own boys." Eight months overwhelming strain and fatigue had made them more weary than they realized, and the horrors of conditions near the Front broke their already overtaxed endurance. In the diaries they left, signs of mental breakdown begin to show as early as October. After the Armistice, when they returned to Chalons as guests, they showed symptoms of nervous prostration, but years of self-control and consideration for others made them conceal the black horror in which they lived—the agony through which they saw a world which they felt contained no refuge for beauty and quiet thought. In such a world they conceived they had no place, and when on their way home they jumped from the deck of the Lorraine, it was in response to a vision that promised them fulfilment and peace. To those who loved them, their death was not only heart-breaking, but brought with it a terrible sense of that most profound tragedy of war,—the bitter waste of spiritual promise. In everyday life they were of those to whom the senses carry a double message; all of us have memories of moments when a driven leaf, a slant of afternoon light, send through avenue of sight or sound an anguish no physical cause can explain—to these sisters, life was continuously bought at such a price, and the undue strain broke the too frail physiques.
It is almost a year since they died on the 19th of January, 1919. Three months later they were buried in France with military honors, and the French Government has awarded them the Croix de Guerre and the Médaille de Reconnaissance française. They gave to the world lives of shining promise and crystal purity, having followed Him who said to His other disciples: Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend.
The April sun;
But through them now no changes flow.
Of quiet years;
But now they know unchanging dearth.
Like certain souls
Who find in flame their blossoming.